Second Time Around
by turtledoves
Summary: The whole thing was very irrelevant to a group of victors, which, as it so happened, all of the tributes were. /The Training Center during the 75th Games. Johanna-centric.


**a/n [**_For Ella (memingers) for January. Edited by Estoma._**]**

There was a fountain that was placed under an alcove on the corner of 2nd and 5th. A building was built strategically around it, with mirrors and colored lights decorating the walls. The fountain itself was of a girl surrounded by peacocks. They flitted about by her feet, on her arms, and on the edge of the marble tub holding the water. The girl's skirt fanned out wide for the birds to use as an umbrella. If you stood in just the right place, at just the right time of day, the whole fountain seemed to be alive; the fabric flittered in the breeze, the birds fanned their tails, and the water swirled up around them and into the sky.

Standing in the same spot you could see a large, white building across the street. It was the tallest building on the block. A gold line etched onto the outside of the building identified every floor. There were even windows as big as some of the smaller buildings on the outskirts of the Capital. The building was known as the Training Center.

The tributes were actually trained in the basement, however, which has only been seen by the Gamemakers, Trainers, and tributes. The glorious part of the building was where the tributes were housed. It was rumored that the roof of the Training Center contained an illustrious garden, but few Capital citizens had ever seen it. There were rumors about the entire place, actually. The gossip flitted casually around the streets, but was constantly watched. If any details of real substance ever slipped outside then the gossiper would be permanently silenced, forced to serve those who minded their tongues.

The basement held the most mysteries.

What stations did each tribute practice at? (Usually the weaponry ones.)

What did each tribute do for their final score? (Most killed a dummy in the most creative way they could think of.)

What color was it? (Silver and black and red.)

Were there really bloodstains on the ceiling? (Yes, but you didn't hear that from me.)

What were the tributes doing right now?

Well, anybody inside would know that the basement was occupied by only eleven tributes, bored as ever. It was two minutes until ten o'clock, when training officially started. The elevator doors opened, and two more entered the room. A trainer walked up to them and pinned a paper to each of them. The papers had a number on them, the tributes' district number.

A girl in the back of the room was sprawled out on a table. The trainer at the station stood flustered while he tried to tell her that she was meant to wait in the center of the room for instructions. The girl ignored him, more interested in swaying her hand back and forth than listening to him.

The girl had short brown hair, slightly singed at the ends as if she had set it aflame. (Which, actually, she had. But that was another story for another day.) Her eyes were currently closed, but under her lids they were a dull light brown. There was a light trail of freckles over her nose that could only be noticed if you really, really looked. Her lips were light pink and pursed, because she was deep in thought. Her name was Johanna Mason.

She zoned in and out of the announcement given by an unenthusiastic Atala about the importance of the stations and to not harm the other tributes and to be prepared for anything in the arena. The whole thing was very irrelevant to a group of victors, which, as it so happened, all of the tributes were.

Johanna Mason, victor. (District Seven: Got the entire country to underestimate her.)

They were released to train, and everyone immediately dispersed. Johanna walked past the stations, glancing at each one as she passed. Gloss (District One: Killed his own district partner) and Enobaria (District Two: Tore out the throat of another tribute with her bare teeth) were sword fighting. He swung at her head; she ducked. She sliced at his feet; he jumped.

Brutus (District Two: Tore off the limbs of each of his victims), Chaff (District Eleven: Had exceptional skills in sneaking up on people), and Peeta (District Twelve: Picked good allies) were at the spear station, making a game with the targets. They were laughing, and obviously enjoying themselves.

In a corner of the room, standing with his arms crossed, was Finnick. (District Four: Trapped and speared his opponents.) He was standing next to the spear cart, subconsciously rubbing his fingers over one of the two tridents provided. His eyes were cast over at Katniss. (District Twelve: Rebel extraordinaire.) Johanna strode over, and leaned against the wall next to him.

"This is impossible," he muttered, turning to look at her. "We'll never get her on our side."

"True, but it's very entertaining to watch you try."

"Yeah? Why don't you try for my entertainment, then? Mix things up a little."

"Because I don't want to."

From up in the Gamemakers' balcony, it was very easy to see the corner that the two tributes occupied. If anyone cared to look, they'd see wild hand gestures and Johanna hitting Finnick ever ten seconds or so. If anyone cared to listen, they'd hear Finnick's loud laugh at Johanna's antics. What you couldn't see from that balcony was Johanna's smug smile as she finally convinced Finnick to go talk to the girl on fire.

"And what will you be doing during all of this?"

She glanced around the room. "I'll hack something up."

"Wonderful. Have fun."

There's nothing better than hacking at a dummy with an axe. The fun could even be increased if you imagined the dummy was Snow. She could see it very clearly, actually, the thick forehead, bushy eyebrows, white hair, and huge lips. The president's putrid breath could almost be seen radiating off the dummy in waves. She swung her weapon, and his head fell to the ground with a soft _clunk_. Satisfied with her work, Johanna stuck the axe in the dummy's chest, right where Snow's heart would be, and walked off to find another activity.

Johanna stopped in front of the station to her immediate right. Throwing knives. Not really her thing. Next!

Sword-fighting. A splotch on the ground was covered in fresh vomit. Johanna wrinkled her nose. Next!

Wrestling. Unoccupied. Male trainer. Perfect.

The trainer was sitting in the center of the circular wrestling area rubbing his hands together. He was inexplicably bored, but it wasn't his fault he was in charge of the least visited weapons station. (The tributes usually preferred shiny and sharp things.) That was before the striking young woman strode right over to him. She stood there on the edge of the ring for a minute, stretching her limbs. The trainer pulled himself to his feet. He knew of this particular tribute, and was a bit wary as he approached her.

Johanna wasn't wary of anything. She didn't even glance at the trainer before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head. The trainer stopped advancing. She shook out her hair before reaching for her waistband.

"Um, Miss?" The trainer opened and closed his mouth, not sure what he should do.

"Yes?" she answered, as innocently as she could. She looked up at him with wide eyes while stepping out of her pants.

"That's really not necessary," the trainer said, glancing at the ground to muster his courage. "You don't ha—"

"Could you hand me some of that oil?"

"I usually teach different forms of wrestling," he tried to argue, but handed her the body oil.

Johanna tossed her last undergarment to the ground.

Most of the other tributes were sneaking glances her way, probably muttering under their breath about her or rolling their eyes, but they carried on with their own training. As usual, the weapons stations were filled more than the survival ones.

The typical Careers disposed of dummies at a faster pace than they could be replaced.

Katniss, Nuts (District Three: Tricked her opponents into a Gamemaker's trap), and Volts (District Three: Electrocuted six tributes) worked on making a fire while having a quiet discussion.

The morphlings (District Six: She was wicked with a sword while he was the best at rationing) were sprawled out in the camouflage station using up every ounce of paint.

The Gamemakers slouched on plush couches, drinking wine and laughing at their own stupid jokes. They pretended to care what the tributes were doing for another hour or so, but then the avoxes starting bringing in the appetizers.

And outside, sitting on the edge of that fountain, you would never know that the tributes were all going to lunch. That they moved the tables together to eat as one. That they chatted like old friends, which they were.

You would never know all of the stories that would never be told again.


End file.
